I woke only a few hours later, and I almost gave up all the stories again. As consciousness stirred in me, so did all those competing emotions—anger, sadness, regret, fright—and they fought for space in my body. If I thought about Manolito’s lie, about his act of destruction, guilt and terror jolted out to all my appendages. I sat up and saw that Papá had fallen asleep in the exact spot he’d been earlier.
I knew that I was leaving—leaving him. And Raúl. And Mamá.
What price was I going to have to pay? And would You exact that price from them instead of me?
Should I leave? I asked You. I raised my hand, put fingers over my eyes, over my heart. Is this what I am supposed to do?
When it first began to fall, I did not know what the sound was. It was like thousands of grains of sand had been dropped from on high, and they bounced off the roof of our home. Shadows filled most of the room, so I watched the still forms of mi hermano y mi papá, and I thought of waking them, to ask them to experience this alongside me.
Instead, I pressed my palms into the ground, levered myself upright, and slowly walked to our doorway. The smell hit me first: something sharp. Bitter. Dust kicked up from below, and tiny pockets appeared in the dirt. I stuck a hand out and—
Rain!
I lurched forward and felt the droplets, hot and thick, pelt my body, and I laughed. When had it last rained? When had You last blessed us with something so beautiful, so necessary?
I lifted my head to the sky, and I opened my mouth. The bitterness hit my tongue, and I choked, spitting it up and returning it to the earth, and I raised my hands up to my face.
Darkness. The rain was dark.
I ran my hands down the blouse that I’d fallen asleep in, and they left a stain across the front of it. A brand. A sign. It was red, a deep, terrible scarlet, an impossible color.
Blood.
Somehow, I knew it was Manolito’s blood. Blood on my hands, on my body, covering every inch of me.
I stumbled back indoors and peeled off my clothing in a panic. After I wiped at my skin, I left everything in a soggy pile by the door and stood, naked and afraid, wishing I could bathe and scrape this filth off my skin.
The others slept. I dressed again in clothes that were clean, free of those horrible stains, and I curled up on my sleeping roll, far away from my family.
Had it begun? Was this a curse? Cuentistas were not supposed to suffer from pesadillas, but … what was that rain? How was it possible that Lito’s blood had fallen from the sky, had soaked through my clothing?
I did not sleep for the rest of that night. I kept waiting for the end to come.
As dawn approached, los pájaros became chatty, chirping and singing to one another. It meant it was time for me to go. They shrieked and sang as I rolled up my sleeping roll and walked as quietly as I could toward the food stored on the other side of the room. There was a leather pack on the wall, and I took that; Mamá used it sometimes when she journeyed to Obregán, but she hadn’t used it in a while. She probably would not miss it.
Would she miss me?
No, I told myself. Don’t think that.
Because if I did, I wouldn’t leave. And I had to leave.
I glanced at Papá, and then … my gaze fell to the pile of clothing I’d left by the door.
Unstained. Damp, crumpled, but still clean.
I could still taste the blood in my mouth, could still sense it running over my skin.
I refused to leave them with my curse.
I packed some dried meats and fruits, wrapped some leftover tortillas in paper and took those, and then grabbed one of Papá’s goatskin bags, the ones he’d purchased from a viajero years ago. They were sturdy and kept water cooler than anything else, and I didn’t know how long this journey would take.
How long would I be gone? What if I didn’t find what I wanted in Obregán? What would I do after that?
Doubt needled at me, and every time, I had to swat it down, stuff it further inside me with the stories.
They were awake, and they reminded me of all the horrible possibilities that awaited me.
I sneaked back to my side of the room and stuffed some clean camisas and undergarments into the bag, just in case this took longer than I expected. I had no real time to consider anything else, so after my sleeping roll went in last, I closed the bag, and looked back on my family.
It wouldn’t take much time to tell them goodbye, and I wanted to. But I couldn’t linger any longer, couldn’t be pulled back to who I once was.
One of the buckets for hunting water sat by the door. I grabbed la pala that Papá had made me and put it under the sleeping roll in my pack.
As I pulled aside the burlap covering on the door and quietly rushed outside, someone grabbed my arm.
Mamá.
“Xochitl!” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Where are you going?”
What was I supposed to tell her, Solís? I had lied so many times, and I could have added another, but when she looked at me, her eyes were inviting. She had both her braids laid over her chest and down to her waist, and they shone in what little light there was that morning.
“I have to leave,” I blurted out. “I need to go, Mamá. To find something.”
I left the rest unsaid: I need to escape. I need to flee from my own pesadillas. I must find myself.
She sighed, and
